The Price of Imagination
by raistss
Summary: Set during Aperitif. Will's overactive imagination, how it is influenced by what he does, and how it creates every single horrible scenario that could happen, causing him stress, but helping him piece together crime scenes. More of a character study than a story I guess. Summary is kind of off. May not follow the episode completely. Sorry.


"Can I...borrow your imagination?" Jack asks. Will glances at him, still quite irritated that the older man had adjusted his glasses. His mind echoes with possibilities, screams at him.

He shouldn't do this, his mind is shouting. It's bad for him. He's _unstable_. Rejection echoes through his body, as painful as it had been before, the first time. He hates that word. Unstable. He sees people from his time as a cop. He sees the man who stabbed his shoulder. It aches in response.

Jack sees the panic in his eyes. "Will?" He asks.

Will tries to shake it off. Paranoia. Unfortunately, it's already under his skin.

* * *

"Normally I wouldn't even broach this, but what do you think one of Will's strongest drives is?" Alana watches Jack, waiting for an answer. He knows exactly what she's getting at.

"Fear. Will Graham deals with huge amounts of fear. Comes with his imagination."

"It's the price of imagination," she states.

* * *

Will stares at the photographs on the Nichols' shelves. Jack is talking to them, but he tunes them out.

He watches as Elise is drawn out of the photograph, the only thing in front of him now.

"How's the cat?" He asks, suddenly.

He hears silence for a moment, still watching Elise. One of the parents responds, confused. "What?"

Will looks away from Elise, the room flooding back into his sight. "How's your cat?" He repeats. He's nervous. "Elise was supposed to feed it. Was it weird when you came home? Must have been hungry, it didn't eat, all weekend." He stutters a little.

He knows where she is.

* * *

"Is this his golden ticket?" Jack is stern.

"No. This is an apology." Will is quiet, the words hanging in the air. "Does anyone have any aspirin?" He asks, feeling his head ache. Antlers line his peripheral vision.

* * *

The night is dark, cool. He strains to focus on the road before him as he drives. The smell of death hangs around him, despite his efforts to ignore it.

He spots a dog, running along the side of the road.

He feels the stress melt off of his body a little, the fear slide away ever so slightly.

* * *

Will dreams about Elise Nichols, lying next to him, dead. She floats up into the air as he turns towa-

He wakes up soaked in sweat, yanks his shirt off, climbs out of the mattress.

He comes back with two towels and tries to go back to sleep.

* * *

Blood fills his vision as he splashes water in his face.

He's rattled by it, flinching away and reaching for paper towels blindly.

* * *

He doesn't notice Beverly's glances. He watches as his vision goes black, Elise floating towards him, antlers growing out of her, blood seeping down her nightgown.

"She was mounted on them. Like hooks," he says, distant, detached.

* * *

"Do you have trouble with taste?" Will glances over at the man, his shoulders tense. He's defensive.

"My thoughts are often not tasty," he states. He's suspicious. His mind screams at him again, _shut up, don't talk, he'll pick you apart, he'll look in your mind, stop it right now._

* * *

"Please don't psychoanalyze me." His voice is low, threatening. "You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed."

_I told you so_, his head says. _I warned you._

* * *

Cassie Boyle rests in the field, her body impaled on the stag head. Ravens and crows perch on her skin.

Will takes it in, his body and mind disconnected.

* * *

Behind closed eyes, Will sees a stag, black and cloaked in raven's feathers. It walks through the blue forest of his mind, and sees him.

He wipes the water from his face, ears hearing the drum of the shower again.

* * *

Will stands, his hands coated in blood, the splatters on his clothes and face and glasses.

He shudders, seeing Louise Hobbs, dead on the patio. He watches unwillingly as Abigail Hobbs, still alive despite her slit throat, is rolled past him.

He sees Hobbs, knife to his daughter's throat again.

He feels the blood-coated gun in its holster, against his hip.

Ten shots.

"See? _See?_"

* * *

He stares at Lecter, the man sleeping, his hand entwined around Abigail's hand.

He sees the stag, standing firmly behind Lecter.

_See?_


End file.
